


To Wire, to Dust

by realmzenith



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Androids, Angst, M/M, Science Fiction, hooo boy lots of angst, read at ur own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmzenith/pseuds/realmzenith
Summary: Ludwig is the android partner-in-crime of Alfred Jones, and they're caught in a dizzyingly precarious situation. Both boys are hiding secrets. But there's so little time.





	To Wire, to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, [Rainy](https://regneriisch.tumblr.com)! This was written for Day 4: AU of [aphrarepairsweek](https://aphrarepairsweek.tumblr.com). Please enjoy. <3

“Get down!” Ludwig presses down on Alfred’s shoulders. 

They duck behind a rusting storage crate and drop to their knees. An explosion rings out in the distance, vibrating up his chest as the ever present ash burns like poison kisses onto his skin. The fallen shrapnel cuts through his pants to his knees, and Alfred’s breath is hot against his neck. It raises goosebumps on his skin and sparks circuits in his wires. He’s too close, and while Ludwig knows this is necessary for their survival, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t been programmed with an ability to feel. It serves him little purpose to feel like someone’s lit the coolant in his veins each time Alfred smiles. It does no good to for his synapses to fail at every brush of Alfred’s hand. 

“Ludwig.” Alfred hisses, yanking him from his thoughts. “We need to get out of here. They’re getting close.”

Alfred takes his hand in his, standing with one quick push and pulling Ludwig up with him. The blood rushes towards his head, heat flaming in his cheeks, but before he can protest, Alfred is tugging him past the next container. 

He crouches out of instinct, too aware of the myriad of dangers around them. He’s running numbers faster than he can see them, simulations and scenarios bouncing past his scrolling eyes. He knows already that they won’t both make it out alive, and he suspects that Alfred knows as well. His hand has not been released. Alfred is still close, puffing warm air against his cheek. Never does he stay this close. Never does he squeeze Ludwig’s hand gently by their thighs. Ludwig hates goodbyes, but he almost hopes that this is Alfred’s. He almost hopes that this is his way of saying he cares, he cared, he will care when Ludwig is inevitably blown to wire and dust. 

Because that is what will occur. It’s obvious which of them must die- if you could call it that for a thing like him- for the other’s sake. Ludwig frowns into the dusk.

“This way.” He murmurs, guiding Alfred up, their hands still linked between them. 

They hurry between the stacked boxes. Another explosion flares, red heat and black smoke. It’s closer. They’re closer. 

Alfred wrenches his hand from Ludwig’s and claps his hands over his ears, wincing, and Ludwig prods him on. He’s scanning for the easiest exit. They’ll be watching, but if he stalls them, if he lets them shoot him down, maybe Alfred will have the chance to escape.

Behind him Alfred coughs, beaten red dust thrown up around them and into Alfred’s lungs. The dry heat is pushing his cooling system into overdrive, and his processor is overloading with rapid fire calculations of their abysmal situation. Alfred swipes his hand across his face, streaked with sweat and grime, and leaves a stripe of dirt where his palm hits his forehead. He’s bruised, a panging reminder of his mortality, and grimacing, the steady fire of drive burning hot behind his eyes. He still looks like the sun, like he always does. Too much, too bright, too generous to a cold, heartless galaxy and too kind to an inhuman hunk of wires and code; to Ludwig.

It hurts too much to look. Ludwig presses on. 

“Lud. Lud, we can’t go this way. We’ll be cornered. We’ll die.” Alfred’s voice is taut, drawn downwards like his brows. 

Ludwig doesn’t stop. He swallows down the lump in his throat. He walks, one foot in front of the other, and takes Alfred forward by the hand. A barrage of shots cut through the chaos. Someone screams, and Ludwig keeps his eyes trained ahead. Dust, rust, sweeping red wasteland- He pretends the next cry doesn’t cut through whatever thing in him is calling up this  _ empathy  _ when he shouldn’t, by any law of nature, be capable of any. 

Alfred pulls back on his hand, gripping tight. “Lud. Ludwig. Stop. We can’t go that way. We have to try something else. That’s just- that’s fucking suicide.”

“We have to.” Ludwig’s voice breaks, and he curses himself internally.  _ Defective _ . Defective rings through his head. He cannot be afraid. That isn’t his right.

“No, we have to.” He asserts and pulls Alfred on. “This is the only way to a ship.”

“They’ll be on us in seconds.” Alfred’s voice hops up. 

_ Stress _ , Ludwig’s processor supplies.  _ He’s experiencing stress _ . Ludwig’s chest contracts at the reading, and he shakes his head. No help; it’s no help. Ludwig knows this already, knows what the pressed lips mean, knows what the wracking coughs imply, knows every goddamn effect this hellish planet has on Alfred’s painfully human physiology.

“Ludwig, listen to me! There won’t be enough time to escape, and the escape pod in there only fits one fucking guy! One small guy!” Alfred yanks back on his hand.

And it hurts. Not the hand, but his voice. It sounds like thinly veiled panic, like a try for strong when your chances burn to wire and dust before your eyes. And it hurts. His words. Of course, Alfred expects them both to live. Of course, he expects them to fly victorious to their ship and leave this system’s hell for at least a day. (But he’d return. It’s what Alfred does: fights the impossible with reckless hope.) It’d be too easy for Alfred to expect Ludwig to simply do his job. It’d be too simple, too kind of fate.

“I have a plan. It will work, I promise.” Ludwig frowns, stopped and staring Alfred straight in the eyes. They’re blue, warm blue, beautiful and gripping, and he wants this to be the last thing he sees before he joins oblivion because he doubts there’s any salvation for androids. Ludwig curses. Not now.

Alfred hesitates. He stands stock-still in the shadow of a crate, the desert sun casting him and the dust in shades of blue. Another cry goes up, and the sound of shouting rises above the din. Ludwig freezes. They’re running short on time. 

“Fine. It better not be some risky shit for you.” Alfred nods, quirking briefly in a smile. His expression falls determined, and he hurries out towards the home of their pod. Ludwig stumbles after him, a new lump in his throat.

The barn stands beaten by the wind. It’s rickety wood, nailed here and there, and the door swings in and out on rusted hinges. It should be simple to reach. It can’t be more than a hundred meters. Only there aren’t any boxes or scrubby bushes or crates to hide behind, and the shouts are growing nearer.

“We have to run.” Ludwig manages. His voice sounds as dry as he feels. “We have to run as fast as we can.”

“I trust you.” Alfred murmurs.

Before Ludwig can process, they’ve taken off towards the barn. A cacophony of voices erupts behind them, and if Ludwig tilts his head just right, he can hear the sounds of reloading guns. He wants to look back, wants to see how close they are, but every second is precious. He doesn't look back. He keeps right behind Alfred even though he knows he could go faster and prays to whatever higher powers there may be that they’ll shoot him, not Alfred. 

The first shot grazes his cheek, whizzes by his skin and cuts cold, silver coolant welling up from the cut. The wetness comes seconds before the pain, but it’s not much, just stinging, and Ludwig knows it’s the program simulating adrenaline working magic through his wires. He can hear the bullets, see them slice the dust-laden air if he slows his processing down long enough to watch, but no others hit him, and they scramble into the building. 

Alfred stops, turns. He stares at him, wild-eyed, until he spots the cut on his cheek. He reaches out to touch it, but Ludwig is faster than Alfred at reading situations, at reading him, and as much as he wants Alfred to cup his cheek and ask him if it hurts, Ludwig knows they have no time.

He pushes his hand down. He can still hear the guns going off in the distance. “I’m fine. Hurry, Alfred.”

“Shit. Yeah.” 

Alfred sprints towards the pod. He’s in within seconds, mashing buttons and murmuring sequences beneath his breath. Ludwig can’t see him behind the wood stacked thick in front of the pod, but he doesn’t need to see to know. He can hear, and he can guess. He looks out the door, squinting into the sunlight. He can make out the men rushing forward, guns loaded and cocked. He reaches forward, slamming closed the door and pushing in the lock. If he was human, his heart would be racing.

“Ludwig, get over here! I just-” Alfred stops. Something begins whirring in the engine.

Ludwig hurries over. They have a little time yet.

“Slide in. I think-” Alfred presses up against the side, gesturing to a space clearly too small for the both of them. “-I think we can fit.”

“We can’t.” Ludwig states. He sounds robotic, calm and detached, and it’s funny. He was programmed to be not, to be human, and it worked, but almost too well. 

Alfred groans, standing with his legs still in the pod, and tugs Ludwig forward by his shoulders. “Don’t be a dick. Come on, Lud. Once this warms up, we’re good to go.”

He still sounds strained, and Ludwig hates it. 

Ludwig can hear their voices. Gunshots have begun to pepper the walls. It’s sharp and loud, and he’s wondering if it’s hurting Alfred’s ears. He scans the boards piled up in front of the pod, brows pulling down as he evaluates the structural integrity. The sunlight filters in through the holes in the ceiling, cracked wood and heavy beams, and the boards are alright. It’s alright. It’ll hold long enough. They’re shielded for now.

Alfred’s hands stay planted on Ludwig’s shoulders as he frowns in the dimmed light. The sunlight cuts in shafts across his light brown skin, and though his brow is crinkled and dirt is smudged across his face, he’s still handsome. Ludwig only wishes he would smile, and though it’s selfish, Ludwig doesn’t wish to die with the memory of Alfred’s frown.

The gunshots have bored holes in the barn. Bullets hit the panels to their front, hiding them from the door, and the screaming becomes coherent. Curses, insults, unfounded accusations- they’re the voices of mad men, but Ludwig is so, so far away. He’s left the dirt floor, the sunlight, the carnage and terror and blood, blocked off the deafening uproar because there is them.

And there is Alfred. 

And Ludwig is irrevocably in love. 

He swallows, still held beneath Alfred’s grip. Near death is commonplace enough for them that this situation is more numbing than freezing fear, but Alfred is verging into panic, and Ludwig can feel it. This time is different. Worse.

Alfred starts with a noise of frustration, hands gripping at his shirt and his light eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “Lud, what are you thinking? God, I fucking swear if you-”

He never finishes. 

Because Ludwig kisses him. 

Alfred’s lips are chapped. He tastes like dust and salt. His arm is burning where Ludwig’s hand has reached for him and found him. It’s overloading Ludwig’s sensors, a mix of desperate, hopeful and sad, but above all, Alfred’s warm, and it’s odd. He’s grounding and bright and so very him in his scent and his skin and his wide-blown eyes, but he’s warm and so human, and it’s odd, and Ludwig has forgotten which way he’d meant to think. One thing clicks. Alfred does not react, so Ludwig pulls away, his hand falling with him. 

Alfred is wide-eyed, jaw hanging and fingers fidgeting where they’ve dropped to his sides. It hurts. Some. But it’s what he expected and still more than what he deserves. It’s death in his face making him crazy. Or maybe it’s just Alfred.

He wants to take him up in his arms, hold him tight to his chest and say sorry a thousand times for ruining the last moments they have together. But he can’t. The men are close, and his projections never lie.

Alfred swallows, touching his lips. He looks like he wants to speak, but Ludwig knows he won’t be able to bear it. He shakes his head.

“Please. Leave now,” he says.

And then he runs, the image of Alfred standing slack-jawed and tense burned forever in his mind. 

The door flings wide open. Men stand armed, shots fired in the direction of the pod and towards him but miraculously they don’t hit. Someone yells. Gunshots ricochet. There is fire, and there is sunlight, and just as he’d guessed, there’s a little black ball rolling straight towards the pod and Alfred. 

It rips from his lips in a desperate last plea. “ _ GO NOW! _ ” 

_ Bomb  _ is the only thing he thinks as he lands atop it, and the world bursts red.

 

* * *

Alfred forces up the wheel. He bursts through the roof, home free, but the sunset is lost to his tear-filled eyes. His ears are ringing, filled still with the gunshots and the screams and the last frantic cry. He takes one look back to the dark, little barn and accelerates hard.

“Fuck.” He whispers. “ _ I loved you, too. _ ” 


End file.
